


Manizeh’s Mark

by SparrowPixie



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Angst, Post EOG, Post Empire of Gold, dara is a brooding sad boy, sad boy sad boy watcha gonna do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowPixie/pseuds/SparrowPixie
Summary: Dara contemplates his slave markings after the final battle
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Manizeh’s Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astarisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/gifts).



> Astarisms got me thinking things so I wrote this in an afternoon. Enjoy!

Dara did not think it possible for his heart to ache any worse than after he had stepped beyond the veil, leaving behind his home, leaving behind  _ her.  _ All the battles he had fought, all the wounds he had suffered, all the people he had lost - nothing compared to this. The emptiness that was consuming him. He had promised Nahri he would not be alone. He had told her not to worry about him. But he could not yet seek out company. Who would have him? 

And now was the time when he needed someone most. Now was the time when everyone was healing. Everyone needed a shoulder to cry on, a willing ear. But these were luxuries a war criminal, a monster, could not afford. 

So Dara sat alone, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the treetops of rural Daevastana, on his own.

He had done his best to reconcile losing Daevabad and losing Nahri. He told himself that it was a small price to pay for redemption. He was getting yet another chance at life and the opportunity to earn it for once. He belonged to no one. His choices were his own to make. He had no master. 

_ I have no master. _

He looked down to the right side of his torso - eyes drawn to his slave markings. A new one had been added. 

It was the latest and the last. 

It belonged to Manizeh. A Nahid. His Banu Nahida. 

He had killed his Banu Nahida. 

And while the act made his stomach lurch, it was the feeling accompanying it that was the source of his agony. 

Manizeh was a monster. She was worse than Ghassan. She was almost as bad as The Scourge. And he mourned his murdering her. He mourned it the same way he mourned his crimes. 

And he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He had saved Daevabad. He had saved Nahri. He had taken the first step, or rather, an enormous leap, to redemption. And a part of him  _ regretted it.  _ He regretted being a bad Afshin. And whenever he looked at the markings climbing his arms and waist he would be reminded of this. He would be reminded that he was a bad Afshin. He would be reminded that he mourned a monster. He would be reminded that his mind had been poked and prodded and molded quite possibly beyond repair. Even if he had someone to listen, to help, he wouldn’t dare admit these feelings. No one could know that even a small part of Dara was disappointed in himself. 

Dara wondered if Nahri would tell them his story. Tell them of his sacrifice. Tell them that even after he did “the right thing” he had cried to her that he had killed his Banu Nahida.

Dara knew he was a bad person.

No, that was too generous. 

He was a monstrosity. A nightmare. 

There was no chance at redemption for him. He should’ve told Nahri to let him die. He should’ve walked into paradise with Tamima, earned or not.

It had been a hard choice, deciding to leave all those months ago. But to this emptiness he would prefer to be locked in the palace dungeon. At least there Nahri could visit him. He could be taunted by the emir. Here in the dark, on his own, only his demons could listen.

Unable to be alone with himself any longer, Dara shifted into smoke and floated on the wind over the treetops. He was going in no direction in particular. There was no place for him to go after all. He didn’t even know where to begin to find the slave vessels. After hunting down one ifrit he only had a vague lead on where the next one could be. And even with that, he wasn’t well acquainted enough with Daevastana anymore to know exactly where to go.

It was a shame. Dara didn’t  _ want  _ to kill anyone, but shooting an ifrit through the throat certainly sounded appealing right now.

Dara wasn’t positive as to how long he’d been drifting above the tree tops but he could feel his strength waning. He would need to rest soon. 

A town eventually came into view. Dara was aware he probably couldn’t plant himself in the middle of the street and stroll to the nearest inn. Instead he selected the vacant rooftop of the tallest building. 

Shifting back into his mortal form, Dara managed the strength to conjure a cup of wine and took to sitting on the edge of the roof, his legs folded. He stared down below at the street. Bustling as the locals made their way home. He couldn’t make out the words, but the soft buzz of conversation was a comfort. Just trying to imagine what they may be saying made him feel a little less isolated. He knew that the demons would come calling soon, their fingers like brambles would tangle themselves in his mind. 

Manizeh’s mark itched at his side. He stopped himself from glancing at it, instead taking a plentiful gulp of his wine. If he didn’t look at it, maybe it would go away.

_ Be proud of that mark more than any of the rest. _

Dara flinched at the thought. He’d murdered all of his slavers. He’d been glad to do so - to put an end to their reign of destruction. To catch them off of their guard and watch their expressions crumble as they died at the hands of their oh so dutiful djinn slave. 

Manizeh’s surprised eyes flashed in Dara’s mind. He winced and threw back another drink. 

_ You saved the city. You did the right thing. _

And that was the trouble. He had done the right thing. He  _ knew  _ it.

So why did he feel so feeble? Why did he feel so powerless? Why was he mourning a murderer? He hadn’t mourned himself, he hadn’t mourned Ghassan. 

_ She was your Banu Nahida. _

It shouldn’t have mattered who she was or what she was. Manizeh had been a monster. Dara was certain that if Ali or Nahri had been the ones to do her in, they wouldn’t be wistfully staring into the night feeling bad about it. They would wear such an accomplishment as a badge of honor. They would use it to remind themselves of their strength during times of weakness. They would remember it when they doubted themselves to offer reassurance. So why couldn’t he?

_ Because you are broken. They broke you. _

Dara squeezed his cup and brushed away the self-pity. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help. 

So what would?

_ Time. _

He’d had centuries of belonging to others. Perhaps centuries to himself were the only cure. Dara’s lips turned down at the corners in approval, he threw back the rest of his wine. 

He could accept that nothing would change tonight. He could accept he was broken for now. He could accept he would never be quite whole or “fixed.” He had time. Let the demons come for him. He had centuries of freedom ahead. Centuries to decide for himself how to cope, how to live, how to  _ heal _ .

Dara glanced down at Manizeh’s mark again, brows drawing together.

It was the latest and the last. 

**Author's Note:**

> Broody moody sad boy


End file.
